


Dance of Memory

by Lightbulbs



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Dancing, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Gen, Introspection, Post-Book 14: A Memory of Light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 04:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20669651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightbulbs/pseuds/Lightbulbs
Summary: When Perrin dances, he remembers.[Set after A Memory of Light]





	Dance of Memory

For Perrin, dancing wasn’t just twirling Tuatha'an skirts or flashing spears. Within the dips and spins lay remnants of the old days.

As husband to the queen of Saldea, he had to attend royal events, some of which included dancing. He was fine with learning a new step or two. Two Rivers folk had never shied away from holding dances, and he’d spent his share of time in inns. He actually liked to dance, though perhaps less so than he had in his youth. It was freeing, like running through the wolf dream at breakneck speeds. Even better, Faile enjoyed their dances together, snuggling in close so that all he could smell was her contentment.

It wasn’t a bad place to be, all things considered.

Tonight he was at a social dance being held by a new lord. He and Faile had made an appearance in an effort to unite the disparate Borderlands cities despite the change in leadership. Faile assured him it was a good idea, although Perrin had his doubts. Still, as a political move, it was far more engaging than discussing land disputes over maps and ale.

The lords and ladies gathered in anticipation, readying for a dance. Some of the ladies had set aside their fans, although others tucked them into silken belted tied over the bodices on their long dresses. Faile herself was wearing an embroidered gown, the high collar nearly reaching her chin.

Perrin’s hands rested on Faile, one on her shoulder, the other on the curve of her waist. Her bodice felt silken under his touch. She smiled at him as the flutist tested a few notes. As the musicians began to play, the music slowly built to a quick cadence.

_ One-two, step, one-two_—

—and suddenly, he was no longer in a dance hall, but around a campfire. There sat Egwene, still wide-eyed and full of the innocence of someone ready to strike out on an _ adventure, _like one out of a gleeman’s tale. He and the others had tried to leave her behind, but she was stubborn.

What would she think, if she knew how many stories had been written about her since that night? Whenever he escaped from his royal duties to the solace of the wolf dream, he’d watch people dream of simple pleasures in taverns, listening to gleemen sing tales of a brave, beautiful Amyrlin.

The memory shifted, the campfire becoming clouds of ravens becoming the flat sloping rocks of Artur Hawkwing’s hand. The Whitecloaks were approaching, their torchlight nearing Perrin and Egwene’s huddled forms.

“Will you dance with me at Sunday?” he heard her whisper, once more a quiet, scared girl, her innocence being shattered before being remade in the crucible of the White Tower and the Aiel Waste. That would be later. For now, she clung to the comfort of being with another Emond’s Fielder.

“I promise,” he said, and she wisped away.

He blinked, and there was Faile. His feet moved on their own. He was a big man, but his steps were light. The musicians continued to play. He let Faile cling to him, dig her fingers into the fabric of his dress clothes as if she were claiming him. Her smell, her joy in these moments, was an intoxicant.

_ Three-four, dip, three-four— _

Faile was gone, replaced by a woman with a long braid. Nynaeve. The common room was loud around them. As they danced, they lacked the intimacy of a married couple. Instead, they were politely distant, almost chaste.

Nynaeve smiled at him, knowingly. Was his nervousness at dancing with the village Wisdom so obvious?

He hadn’t yet begun to think in scents, hadn’t yet met Elyas in those dark woods. He could only judge by those eyes which had yet to see the horrors of war.

At least Nynaeve was alive. She’d had her role to play in Tarmon Gai’don, as had they all. But just as gleemen sang of the most powerful Aes Sedai becoming crystal, so did they sing of the lovely wife to the Malkier king, healer of healers.

“Perrin?”

He tried to shake himself free of the memory. Nynaeve’s story had a happy ending. She was safe in Malkier, with her beloved, helping to usher in a new age. Just because so many others had died… 

“Perrin!”

Perrin looked at Faile. Her scent had shifted, concern threaded through the joy. Her expression was placid as quenched steel, smooth along the edges and purged of heat. But her smell… That was something she’d couldn’t hide from him. He knew her moods better than she did.

“I’m all right,” he said, leaning into her even as the dance demanded they pull away, stepping back in a line formation only to come back together. He held her, gently, and breathed in her scent. His falcon, a grounding force.

She looked suspicious, and the concern was still there, but he smiled at her, firm in that way she liked, and he felt her relent as they picked up where they’d left off.

_ Eight-nine, twirl, eight-nine—_

Perrin wasn’t alone. The Winespring Inn was full of people, laughing and happy, some flush with the apple brandy brought in by Tam for Bel Tine. The music wasn’t the best he’d heard, but the musicians played with enough heart to make up for it.

He looked beside him. Rand was an awkward-looking boy, gangling, not the impressive man he’d later become. His clothes were plain, made of sturdy Two Rivers wool, and he still had both hands, one of which was timidly reaching for Egwene.

It was strange to see the two of them together, unbound by the Wheel’s weave that had driven them apart in the end. The looks they gave one another were shy and tentative. Even now, practically betrothed, they seemed unsure.

Perrin lost sight of them as he was rushed along, whirling in a step that left his dance partner breathless. He realized then that he was just a boy himself, nearly eye-to-eye with this village girl, one he recognized but couldn’t quite name. He hoped she hadn’t been slain by a Trolloc.

The girl wasn’t shy about holding him close. In the trickle of memory, young Perrin had been confused. Now a married man, he saw this physicality for what it was. He’d always thought he was bad with women; perhaps he was right.

They laughed and spun, then switched partners, then spun again. Perrin tried to hold on to the scene. Rand and Egwene, off to the side. Mat smiling at every woman he saw, then being rebuked by one of the village elders.

His family, gathered around a table.

The music stopped. Perrin blinked as he felt the eyes of the people turn to him and Faile. She bowed, and the lords and ladies began to exit the floor.

Perrin started to move with them, but Faile held him in place. She looked at him, searching. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said. “Just remembering.”

Faile’s gaze grew distant a moment, as if seeing her own dances past in her mind’s eye. Then she smiled again, soft and warm. “Come, my husband,” she said. “Let’s return to our table.”

Perrin followed her in a haze of music and memory.


End file.
